Harry Potter and the Male Model
by Spiffing Repartee
Summary: After a years hiatus Hogwarts is reopened, but things have changed. Draco Malfoy has a dazzling new life as a male model, but is everything really as beautiful as it seems? He and Harry are still enemies, right? Set after DH. SLASH
1. I

**Article from muggle magazine 'GQ'**

* * *

Soon you'll be seeing male model Draco Malfoy everywhere - in magazines, on billboards, on television and on runways. He'll travel the world, become rich and land any woman he wants, all before his nineteenth birthday. Nice work, if you can get it. By: Michael Paterniti.

He walks through strobe and electric air, wearing silk suits and 1950s tennis outfits, chain-mail vests and, once, unbelievably, a cashmere diaper. His is not to question why. His is not to ponder too deeply the cashmere diaper, let alone the ugly, frozen planets at the edge of existence or the huddled, tattered-shoed masses. He sometimes walks wearing 1,000 loafers of the finest calfskin and then, the next moment, walks barefoot.

He's neither waif nor muscled lunker. He never works out, does very little except occasionally relinquish himself to the hands of a masseuse or manicurist to keep up appearances. But he walks a lot, through purple-lit alleys walled with people who want him - or, more precisely, who want what he wears. He walks the runways in Paris, Berlin, New York, Milan - wherever the money's best. In front of hundreds, sometimes thousands of admirers, he has walked to a soundtrack of women groaning in erotic ecstasy, and he has walked to street-thug boasts about the thrill of capping cops. He's the bullet and the G-spot.

No matter what the venue, the walk is virtually the same. It's nothing he learned deliberately and it's nothing he's had to practice. He bends slightly forward, head leading, mouth fastened, serious-looking to the point of menace, but a kind of empty menace, an unmenacing menace defined at its center by a blankness onto which others project their own ideas about sex, power, money and culture. He is merely a movie screen. A bauble. Pez. When he appears before the crowd, his grey eyes gaze straight ahead, receiving and reflecting nothing. His face is its own landscape, one of planed surfaces that change with the light, the mood, the dress. He has small ears, full lips, a pointed, straight nose. He has high cheekbones and a forehead that has a kind of Cro-Magnon power. And yet he seems delicate somehow. He's better looking than Toby Hemingway, the person people have said he vaguely resembles. He thinks he looks like his dad.

Mostly, people don't care what he thinks - or even what his name is. Despite being one of the world's top models, despite having had contracts with Hugo Boss and Calvin Klein, he's only a face, a shell. Even as he looms on posters in store windows or appears in magazine spreads, even as he walks the runways of the world, few people pause to wonder whether he believes in God or wants kids someday or even if he had a heroin problem years ago. He decorates our culture, is being used up by it, and he knows this. He was born beautiful, be he wasn't born dumb. If people condescend, that's their problem. He's 18 years old and owns a car and a house in South Africa, rents a swank apartment on Gramercy Park in New York and travels the world, partying with other beautiful people and drinking Cristal. Nice work, if you can get it. By the way, his name is Draco Malfoy. You've already met him thirty, forty, fifty times without knowing it. He was the wordless one, lurking there in your closet. He was the one who wore your coat, your suit, your checked shirt, your striped socks, even your cashmere diaper.

And that's why you bought it.

"This place is crisp," says Draco, lounging in the lobby bar at the Four Seasons Hotel in Milan. He arrived from Paris last night for the most important biannual event in men's fashion, the five-day run of shows known as Fashion Week. Fashion Week is the official rollout of the spring line for many of the world's most famous fashion houses, including Gucci, Armani, Prada, Versace and Calvin Klein, as well as smaller houses like Neil Barrett, John Varvatos and Romeo Gigli - each fighting for it's slice of a 52 billion industry. During this time - and another five days in winter - the fashion world freezes in one place to admire, pillory, gossip, condemn, imbibe, inhale and celebrate the newest sartorial confections. Draco first came to Milan last year, which makes this his second season walking the runway. Sitting here between casting calls and a fitting, he has the lithe, man-boy appearance that is de rigueur at the moment. He is six feet one, 160 pounds with a thirty- one-inch waist, and he seems mostly devoid of body hair except for the silver mane on his head. He wears several gold rings and slouches a bit as he slurps San Pellegrino and takes a few bites from a chicken club sandwich. Though he's staying at another hotel - one favored by models that is decidedly more hip and reasonably priced - he admits he could get comfy here, glancing around the lobby, a spectacle of industry power brokers and stars like Michael Douglas and Catherine Zeta-Jones who are in town for the shows and the Versace party. "These are good fucking potato chips," he says.

Though the shows begin tomorrow, Draco has received only a few confirmations. This is not unusual, even for the top male models. And so the week begins with a rush of casting calls and pent-up anxiety. Once a model is picked - usually between fifteen and thirty are chosen per show - there's a fitting the day before and then a call time, two to three hours before the show itself, during which the models are prepped and dressed. Because of his elite status, Draco doesn't have to suffer the indignity of waiting with 100 other models for hours on a baking sidewalk, but even in prearranged auditions, he's subjected to the same scrutiny of those who choose - often a designer and his or her lieutenants. Each meeting becomes a kind of quorum, contest and validation of something that Draco doesn't entirely control: his "look." In his case, that look is ever pliable and easily manipulated, and it's exactly what designers have counted on to sell millions of dollars of clothes.

"I'm happy to be what other people want me to be, as long as I'm being paid for it," Draco says. "I'll do pretty much anything for the right pay - wear fur, pose nude. I haven't posed nude yet, but if it was tastefully done, I would."

Because everything unfolds so quickly here, Draco is a slave to his cell phone, jumping to attention each time it rings. "This is Draco," he says, answering. It's his agent Natalie, telling him he's on for the Laura Biagiotti show.

"Wicked," says Draco. "Peaches and cream. Got it... Okay. Ciao."

Draco has a smoky voice with the slightest British inflection. Every once in a while, he runs into a word that seems to cause a synaptic misfire, a half-second stammer. In that most fleeting of moments, he appears not so much a model-god at the center of some charmed, white-hot hipness, but a sweet nervous kid who hopes people will continue to like him.

For Draco, despite the frisson of the Four Seasons lobby and the glamour he adds to it, Milan is yet another moment of reckoning for him. With the clock ticking, he's not yet been picked for Gucci, Prada or Calvin Klein, all important "gets," both for the money and for the prestige, and because they may then lead to an exclusive contract. Contracts are what separates the made from the unmade models. With his contract for Hugo Boss, Draco earned roughly 200,000 for five days of actual work.

"We're waiting to hear on a lot of stuff," says Draco, his legs bouncing nervously beneath the table. And what if everyone says no? Is this the beginning of the end? And how weird would it be to have this celebrity life and then, suddenly, be washed-up at the age of 18?

Truths about male models:

1. In a business where the designers and stylists are predominantly gay - and where many assume that male models are, too - the majority of male models seem not to be gay at all. "I know everyone," says Draco, "and only two models that I know of are gay."

2. Summing up male-model attitudes towards their female counterparts, one male model named Damien says, "Most girl models are social-climbing bitches who won't talk to you unless you're loaded. You see 18-year-old girls with 50-year-old wankers all the time." Gisele ranks high on the list of those they dislike. Another model says, "She travels around with this little fucking white terrier named Vida, and sits there either talking about herself or her dog. One time, I did a job with her, and we were there for hours sweating it out in suits, waiting for her to show up. When the limo pulled up, she got out with Vida and said, 'What are you standing around for?' and another guy turned to one of the stylists and said very loudly, so Gisele could hear, 'Will someone tell Gisele to shut the fuck up?'"

3. On the other hand, most male models love Christy Turlington.

On the second afternoon of fashion week, Draco is trying on outfits at a fitting for the designer Romeo Gigli, a smaller fashion house run by Romeo Gigli himself. The confirmations have begun to roll in, and Draco is here with another male model named Jeremy Hassol, a guy who, like Draco, has had past good luck in Milan, especially with Gucci, the biggest payday of the week. If picked again, Jeremy stands to make 15,000 for one walk down the runway. "Gucci is basically what I'm here for," says Jeremy.

Though seeming opposites, Draco and Jeremy are best friends. They have both lived at the highest echelons of the male-model world for a year now, which means they gross somewhere up to half a million dollars a year - before doling out 20 percent to their agents and then covering expenses. When not specifically travelling on contract work - and for nearly every model, runway work isn't contract work - models pay their own way, or take a loan from their agency on a gamble that this season's runway work will prove lucrative. So Draco and Jeremy split a room. Besides that, there are the bar tabs and room service and their ever cheerful driver named Stefano. After Milan, there's the trip to Paris for more shows, the hotel in Paris, the clubs in Paris - and finally, the flight home to New York.

Whereas Draco projects a kind of assumed, if not actual, fair-haired refinement, Jeremy is all macho and swagger, with a scar on his neck and a king's crown tattooed on his shoulder. He's leaner and taller than Draco, with dark hair, thick brows, startling hazel eyes and a mouth that doesn't stop moving. Sometimes, when he passes Draco in the strobes of the runway, he'll mutter something under his breath just to see if he can goad Draco into laughter. Draco and Jeremy dress in a downstairs room before wall-length mirrors, attended by three young women who pick clothes from a rack and dress the models. Romeo Gigli's clothes are carnivalesque: jarring combinations of stripes and bright colors. Trying on a pair of oversize shoes, Jeremy says, "I feel like a fucking clown." As one of the women kneels before Draco to pick up a pair of shoes from which he's just stepped, he simultaneously strips to his white Skivvies. In another context, it might be the prelude to sex, but both the woman and Draco wear impassive expressions. "I got used to the naked stuff a long time ago," says Draco. "It's hard to be a model if you don't."

When the outfits seem right, Draco and Jeremy are sent down a hallway and up a flight of stairs to where Gigli sits wearing white beach floods and a sheer pink tank top. He smiles at the models but then turns deadly serious as he evaluates their various ensembles. Standing before Draco, Gigli pouts in consideration, adjusts a lapel, twists a tie minimally to the right, then sends Draco up and back, and then Jeremy, in wild-striped suits. When he is pleased, he has them photographed with a Polaroid, and then the photos are pinned beside pictures of other models in their outfits on a bulletin board that will serve as a blueprint for the show. The two models head back for another outfit. On the way, Jeremy notices a young blond woman in a white shift who sits with her tan legs crossed at a downstairs table for visitors. She is the very pretty girlfriend of a male model who has just arrived, and Jeremy can't keep his eyes off her.

"Man, do you see her checking us out?" Jeremy says to Draco. "She doesn't mind looking, does she?" He keeps leaning, looking through the door at the woman.

"She's a little too big to be a model," says Draco, meaning she's not stick thin.

"But she's hot," says Jeremy. And then, as if to explain why he's looking back, he says with a touch of both utter bewilderment and longing, "Dude, I haven't gotten laid in a month."

Later, out on the street, Draco and Jeremy linger in the orange glow of a slow-setting sun, waiting for Stefano to come around. A light wind, the temperature of hot tea, ruffles the leaves of a nearby almond tree. Draco's cell phone rings: Natalie again. He listens intently, looking serious, then grins. "Wicked," he says into the phone. "I'll be there. Ciao."

After hanging up, he doesn't say what the call was about. He has two fittings and another casting call to get to, while Jeremy, whose phone isn't ringing and who's still waiting to hear on a number of shows, is heading back to the hotel. This must be model etiquette, or one friend protecting the other for a moment. But later the truth outs: Draco got Gucci, and Jeremy didn't.

More truths about male models:

1. They hate Milan as much as Milan hates them. In bars here, there are signs that read NO MALE MODELS. If female models are desirable, appetizing nightclub garnish, male models are dangerous because they attract other men's girlfriends and because they're not quick to back down from a fight. One year a model showed up with a broken nose after a bar-room brawl, and an influential stylist, seeing his purpled eyes and bent proboscis, said, "It's perfect. Don't change a thing."

2. Models like Draco will pocket about 15,000 for five days in Milan, but laws prohibit traveling with excessive amounts of currency. Thus, models have multiple foreign bank accounts and sometimes buy gold jewelry to transport their earnings home.

3. The grail for most runway models is the Gucci show, because the money's great and, backstage, there's a cornucopia of M&M's and candy bars, Big Macs and free smokes. Finally, there's the unusually vivid pep talk, delivered each year by one of the show's organizers: "You're the fifteen hottest guys in Milan," it begins, "and every woman out in that room wants to fuck you. I want to fuck you. You're all badasses, and when you walk out there every eye will be on you and they'll want to fuck you..." And so it goes. "He definitely makes you feel pretty special," says one model, "but he could just say, 'You're the man,' and leave it at that."

Nine a.m. on Tuesday, the third day of Fashion week, and Draco is backstage at the Missoni show, where quarters are cramped and windowless. There's been a building momentum to his week as he's been confirmed for show after show and, with Stefano at the wheel, he's crisscrossed Milan at all hours of the day and night to arrive on the next designer's doorstep. Now he and a model from Kentucky named Boyd, who has spent the past year as the face of Christian Dior, sit before mirrors that run the length of the wall, worried over by stylists who juggle makeup brushes, curlers, blow-dryers and cans of L'Oreal Elnett. One dabs foundation under Draco's eyes; another mousses Boyd's hair. Both models slouch in their chairs, in T-shirts and low-slung jeans, staring blankly ahead, smoking, accepting as a matter of course all this fuss. In the bounce of opposite mirrors, their images reflect to infinity, yawning. Thirty male models are scheduled for the show today, wearing thirty outfits in all. As yet, though, only twenty-nine have shown up. It's Jeremy who's MIA. "Where is he?" Draco says out loud to no one in particular. Last night, Draco returned after midnight to the hotel to find Jeremy loaded and dervishing on champagne in the lobby bar. "There was no stopping him," Draco says, adding that he's left Jeremy sometime after 2 a.m. lying faceup on the bar, swigging vodka straight from a bottle. "He never made it back to the room." Nearby, a collection of already styled models play Hacky Sack. Another model, a solidly built, long-haired American named Chris (as in Chris Grossarth), goes from one model to another, looking grave and telling each he has a very important question. He pauses solemnly before asking.

"Would you rather have breasts or a vagina?" he says.

"You mean, if I were a woman?" says a bare-chested model tapped to wear a tight bathing suit for the show.

"No," says Chris, "you're a man, and you're either going to be given breasts or a vagina. Which one?"

"Neither. Besides, I don't have room for a vagina."

"No. That's not the point. You have to choose."

"Jesus," says the model. "I have to choose?"

"That's what I said," says Chris. "There's no easy out."

Meanwhile, the stylists have released Draco. Whereas at the Valentino show the theme was, according to one stylist, "big, luxurious hair" - and Draco sported a hair salad right out of Munchkinland - the Missoni look this season is blessedly neat and natural. Draco lights another cigarette and drifts over to fill a cup of coffee. Then he pulls out his cell phone and stares at it a moment, as if hoping for divination. During the time they've been friends, he's never known Jeremy to miss a show. As much as there's money at stake for Jeremy, there's his reputation. And without that, he won't work again.

"Breasts or vagina?" Chris says, moving down a line of guys, each standing before his own rack of clothing, waiting to be dressed. "Breasts or vagina?"

Draco dials a number, asks to speak with someone, and a moment later he's on the phone with Jeremy, who's in bed with a forty-something female agent from Los Angeles, one who'd extended an open invitation for sex their first night in Milan. Draco hangs his head so others can't overhear and implores Jeremy to come down to Missoni right away. He listens a minute, shakes his head and hangs up. "He said, 'Fuck it. Tell 'em my father died,'" says Draco.

Approaching show time, a woman calls out in English: "We're going to need cigarettes out soon. First costume in fifteen minutes." Chris then makes an announcement of his own - "Guys, I have eleven vaginas and no breasts!" - which is received with scattered golf applause. Draco glances at his watch, pulls out his cell phone, and begins to dial, but there's no signal now.

"He's going to wake up in a few hours and realize he made a huge mistake," he says. "We're a dime a dozen around here, and they'll have someone in two seconds to replace him."

Moments later, the models are dressed and then lined up, fussed over again by a legion of stylists. Sure enough, Jeremy's place has been filled by a guy who looks like Jeremy. Outside, in the theater, the crowd quiets and the music begins - the usual loud-thumping, sexed- up soundtrack of this dreamworld. And the man-boys, no longer joking and smiling but turned rather stern and in character, begin their march down the runway. Draco is somewhere in the middle of the line but no longer looks like himself, among all the others who no longer look like themselves. They are nameless faces, shells, bound in the world's finest threads.

When Draco walks out, there's a white flash of camera lights - and the collective, electric gaze of a packed house assembled to worship or ridicule. He's the bullet and the G-spot. On him, the clothes liquefy and shimmer. And for those who doubt it, imagine this world without Draco: You couldn't pay people enough money to come to Milan at the swampy end of June to see these clothes rolled out on a hanger. It just would never, ever work.

Final truths about male models:

1. Women speak to them in threes.

2. Men pretend to ignore them while often studying them more closely than women do.

3. The cost of beauty - the poking, the prodding, the pin sticking, having to wear G-strings or heavy wool sweaters in the sweltering sauna of Milan in June - is balanced by the fine sum that beauty gets paid. "It's a pretty easy job," says one model. "We walk up and back. We sit around and get photographed with beautiful women. And then there's the after-party."

4. Male models excel at the after-party.

On the last full day in Milan, just before everyone jumps on flights to Paris for three more days of shows, a famous fashion house throws a private bash for a few hundred of its closest friends. This is something Draco has been looking forward to all week - the chance to chill and party. And there's plenty to celebrate: In the end, he bagged the biggies - Gucci, Prada and Calvin Klein - and had fun with the littler houses like Verri and Nicole Farhi.

In all, he did twelve shows. And throughout the fourteen-hour days, he was polite and earnest, punctual and perfectly moldable. He got mad only once, when a woman, one of the organizers who gypsies from production to production, asked for his name when he arrived at another show. "Draco," he'd said. And then, under his breath: "You should know that by now."

The only black mark was Jeremy, who after missing Missoni never showed up for Romeo Gigli. While Draco was having his hair shampooed, moussed and dried for the second time that day, his cell phone rang. It was Jeremy.

"I'm gone, bro. I'm quitting," he said. "Yeah, I'm on my way to the airport right now." And just like that, he was on a plane back to New York.

"Maybe if he'd come around and apologized or kissed some ass...," says Draco, "but it's his choice. He says he wants to go back to college at Columbia. He gets, like, straight A's there."

The bash is thrown in a huge open room, and the DJ spins a mix of techno, Ibiza dance and old-school disco. The crowd is a sweaty mash of everyone from young male and female models in torn jeans to older fashionistas who, three decades ago, might have worn fuschia Nehru- collared shirts irony-free to an event like this. At either end of the room are bars manned by shirtless male models wearing short shorts. Several press through the tight crowd, as if scripted to do so, retrieving bottles of champagne, dancing closely with the most enthusiastic taker. And there are many enthusiastic takers.

On the dance floor, Jake Boyle, a New York model, wearing a T-shirt that is safety-pinned and scrawled with punk band names in ink, is talking to two sisters, twins who both model, swaying with a drink in each hand. Boyd stands near one corner, talking to several women. It turns out that Dior has picked another model for their new campaign. "They told me to lose weight," Boyd says. "But I'm blowing over as it is. I mean, I'm becoming a man. I can't be a boy forever." Meanwhile, Draco moves through the crowd, downing glasses of champagne, greeting his righteous male-model posse with big hand slaps and soulful thumps on the back while gently double-bussing those women he knows.

When the music goes tribal, Draco makes his way up to the DJ booth and positions himself above the crowd, pointing to his friends and rocking to the music. With him is a nonmodel brunet, who's spent the evening moving closer and closer. Then all at once, with some surge in the music, she pushes up against his body and kisses him. He politely accepts her kiss, only as if he were taking her coat, then does nothing to encourage her. Instead, he goes right back to rocking with the crowd.

Out on the street afterward, at what is now about 4 a.m., a group of male models loiter. A former Guess? Jeans model, a Brazilian with anything but little-boy pecs, guzzles from a vodka bottle while sitting on a motorbike. Draco begins looking for a taxi while Jake, the punker from New York, decides he's going to run back to his hotel. Just takes off running, his long gazelle legs driving him sideways for about four or five steps until he leans like Pisa, then smacks down on the pavement. Again and again - each time with a sickening thud. As he makes his jagged way down the street, several people in taxis pull up to ask if he needs a ride, only to be met with a string of obscenities and another face-plant. When he reaches a second traffic light down the street, he simply disappears.

Fashion is meant to be fantasy, the magic thread sewn into the lattice of our occasionally humdrum lives, an expression of our own creativity and fetishes and aspirations. But the difference between us and Draco is that, on the runway, he wears the clothes he does for few of these reasons. He wears them primarily for survival and profit. He's a mercenary who dreams of one day being the first male supermodel identifiable, finally, by the thing that eludes most people now: his name.

Tomorrow the shows move to Paris, Berlin, New York. Another season will arrive, and with it a new parade of faces and bodies and perhaps even a new Draco Malfoy. You may notice these faces, you may not. But on the empty streets of Milan at 4 a.m., the real Draco Malfoy waves down a cab and heads back to his hotel room, which is now minus a roommate. For the moment, he has survived another season in Milan. His call for tomorrow morning's show is 8 a.m., and he plans to be there on time.


	2. II

**Record of all the lies Hermione Granger tells in a day (1)**

* * *

I recently read an article about lying and it said that on average we tell seven lies a day. 'That's quite a lot of lying,' I thought to myself and as can be expected I was quite skeptical. However, they actually had two people write a journal of all the lies they told in a single day and it was quite a lot more than that. So in the interest of academic improvement I am going to write a journal of all the lies I told today. Well actually that's a lie, I'm doing it because I'm bored out of my sodding mind, but it doesn't count because I technically thought it.

9am- Mrs. Weasley asks me whether I could go to Diagon Alley to get some Floo Powder as she's all out. "I'd love to," I reply. What I meant to say was, "I'd love to stay at home and pretend the outside world doesn't exist," but there you go.

11am- I am in Flourish and Botts searching for, 'Magical Ailments and Maladies,' by Gertrude Berdford when a man in purple robes starts gawking at me, "Your what's 'is name, 'Arry Potter's friend, ain't ya?" I stiffly reply in the negative and got the hell out of there. Why someone so obviously illiterate was in a bookshop I'll never know, or maybe he just couldn't read the sign that said it was a bookshop.

11.05am- I Apparate into the room Ginny and I share to find her and Harry looking ruffled, startled, disheveled and very red- as though they had been kissing and then hastily broke apart at the sound of my entrance. I force out a laugh and tell them, "It's alright." When I'd much rather throw them out the window.

11.10am- Ron walks in sheepishly and I suspect that Harry and Ginny sent him in as a means of apologising or of saying, "Look you're not that innocent yourself." I tell Ron I'm busy, which isn't really a lie as I really was busy, staring at the ceiling.

12.00pm- At lunch George tells us he has a surprise for us. I feign excitement suspecting another Weasley's Wizard Wheezes flop; he just hasn't been the same without Fred. In the end I am beyond excited because what actually came were letters telling us that we'd been invited to return to Hogwarts to complete our final year seeing as how classes were dissolved after... Anyway, I guess it wasn't really a lie because I was excited in the end.

1pm- I'm pouring through the seventh year potions book, despite having already read it and when Ron walks in and says, "Blimey, Hermione, you're unbelievable." I roll my eyes but I'm secretly pleased with myself, everything feels like it's back to normal. Once again, not really a lie but what is the harm?

7pm- Mrs. Weasley calls me for dinner and I reply, "Coming." Even though I'm still finishing my summary of chapter eight. I'm not really sure why I did that.

8pm- I go for a walk around the gardens with Ron and he tackles a Gnome for my amusement. I force out a laugh. The Gnome bites Ron on the finger, he lets out a yelp, and I have to stifle my laughter.

10pm- I resume studying and feel almost normal again until I meet the word "Polyjuice" and images of a greasy haired hero come to mind. My eyes go glassy and I make a little sniffle. Ron looks up from his Quidditch magazine and asks me if I'm okay. I lie and say, "Yes." That one wasn't really my fault. It's an unspoken etiquette to not mention, what happened.

Thankfully everyone else is now asleep, so I won't be able to tell any more lies and keep my quota at nine. Although, I did tell Ron I'll be studying all night and this isn't technically studying. So I guess I told ten lies today, which is quite even when you think about it. It's also quite a lot. Although I can't say that I'm guilty about it without my lie-count increasing. Most were done out of necessity. I mean what would have happened if I had told the truth all day? Ron and I would have broken up over his stupid finger, Harry and Ginny would be in St Mungo's Hospital sustaining injuries from a two-storey fall, and we'd all be crying about the War. So really, it's out of necessity. Really.

* * *

A new day accompanied by a new list of lies.

I refrain from lying until 11am, because every time I'm about to I think about yesterday's big one-zero, but then something happens so that I really have no choice but to lie.

11am- Harry, Ron and I go shopping in muggle London. We've been visiting muggle London quite a bit, however we'd usually confine ourselves to small coffee shops. Today, we decided to go shopping because we'd promised to take Ron to see a 'movie' and then decided we both needed new muggle clothing. For fun we go into an optometrist so that Harry can try on new glasses. Ron cries out, "It's Malfoy." Harry whips off the glasses he was trying on and crams his old ones back on, then looks around agitatedly. Finally, we both see Malfoy, on a poster for some luxury brand of glasses. Malfoy's shirt is half-open and he is wearing that smirk of his. "That's bloody disgusting," Ron mutters, genuinely nauseated. I nod in agreement, disingenuously. However, in my defense Harry looked murderous and I was scared for my own safety.

11.20am- we Apparate back home as the Malfoy sighting dampened the mood somewhat. It's lunch and Ron loudly recites what happened in between mouthfuls, whilst Harry sits moodily picking at his food. When Ron finishes, Harry says, "How can he just do that?"

"What?" I enquire, playing dumb.

"Exploit muggles like that, he hates them."

"Oh, I don't know," I reply, although I do.

"It's because he's a foul, conniving ferret," Ron says. A few of the Weasleys nod but then conversation dissipates because we're bordering so close to the topic we've all been avoiding this past year.

12pm After lunch Ron and I walk around the gardens and Ron mutters some more about Malfoy and I decide that I can't keep it to myself anymore so I tell the truth, not really sure why I'm recording it here, maybe it cancels out some of the lies?

"Look Ron, can I tell you a secret?" I cut his rant short.

"Sure," he says although he looks uncertain.

"I've been breaking your mum's 'no-contact-with-the-outside-world rule.'"

"Hermione," he begins.

"I couldn't help it."

"It was for our own good."

"Fine, I won't tell you about what's happened then." Ron's frown falls comically. "Hypocrite," I mutter and he grins penitently.

"Malfoy's parents have been put into Azkaban and all his family's money, land and belongings have been seized." I blurt out. Ron's expression is somewhere between glee and euphoria. I roll my eyes, he is so funny. "There was an article about it in the Daily Prophet. Something like, 'Bitter justice: The Malfoys' fall from grace'. It mentioned that Malfoy has been working as a muggle model for the past year." I didn't tell Ron that there was an article about Malfoy stating that he was doing quite well, no need to crush his joy.

"Merlin, the rich and powerful, Malfoy, working for muggles," he cries gleefully. His grin is contagious and soon I'm also smiling ear to ear. "Sweet justice: How the mighty have fallen," he misquotes. "Malfoy, who used to tease me about being poor, hasn't even got a Sickle." I refrain from mentioning that the article, which I didn't mention, also said that Malfoy was making quite a lot of money.

Ron then completely loses it and breaks into a bizarre, yet highly amusing, jig. Mrs. Weasely walks out and asks why Ron is so happy and in between bursts of laughter I lie, "No reason."

2pm- Ron and I spend some, quality, time together; if you get what I mean. Other people's misfortune is strangely an aphrodisiac for Ron. After we lie on his bed panting for a while, he asks me, "How was it for you?"

"Great," I lie.

2.30pm- I resume studying when Harry walks in. He asks me whether it's wrong to feel angry about Malfoy picking himself up after the war. I tell him it's perfectly reasonable everything considered, and that's not actually a lie. It's perfectly reasonable for Harry, who lost so much in the war to want revenge. That's exactly how I felt, when I'd first read about Malfoy.

"You don't always have to be perfect, Harry," I tell him. That's a lie. He does always have to be perfect because that's the precedent he's set for himself. When he blows up people don't realise it's because he's not perfect, but they simply put it down to 'pressure' and 'hormones'.

"I don't try to be," he says testily.

"I know," I lie. He does.

"Okay, maybe I do." I nod. "It's just that he's done so much to ruin my life." I nod. I 'forget' to mention my belief that Malfoy didn't want any of this. "Thanks Hermione," Harry says and gives me a quick hug.

10pm- I'm studying and Ginny wishes me good night. I wish her a good night too, although that's a lie because that reminds me of her and Harry having a "good night" together and I really don't need to think about that.

So eleven lies today. I thought I would get better at this. Wait, that's a lie.


	3. III

**Filch (1)  
**

* * *

_Bleedin' students coming back soon. Better with just Mrs Norris and me, me and Mrs Norris. Students, with their magic and their potential, sick of the lot of them. Umbridge, now she had it right. Dumbledore, bless his soul, sentimental old fool._ "Watch it Peeves, or I'll have the Bloody Baron after you."_ Bleedin' Peeves, thinks he's hero now. Well I could have fought in the War but why help the students? I wasn't afraid for myself. I just didn't want to help them. Now what's all this paper? _"PEEVES!" _It's Draco. I'll get Peeves for this, I will. He knows how much I hate Draco, almost as much as I'm-a-hero Potter who tried to hurt Mrs Norris. Yuck, all half-naked pictures too. Stupid Peeves. Just wait 'til the Baron hears about this. _"Baron, oh Baron." _Wait, what's that you say Mrs Norris? A good time to try it? I just might. Is anyone watching? Bleedin' nosey, ghosts and portraits, the lot of 'em. _

_Okay, now just like Ollivander said Filchy and the papers should be ordered. _"Ordrolus." _Stupid wand. Stupid, stupid wand. _"Ordrolus!" _Stupid wand. Stupid Ollivander. Stupid Kwikspell. What do I need magic for? Stupid, stupid magic. I should just snap this stupid wand now. No, I'll just hold onto it, for the time being. Stupid Peeves. Stupid Draco, why does he have to take so many photos for? Argh, look at this one. Where's his self-respect? Oh, she looks quite nice now doesn't she? Might hold onto this one. Yuck, so many._

**Two hours later…**

"Tea is served. Now don't burn yourself Mrs Norris." _Maybe I'll buy Mrs Norris a nice dress. _"Mrs Norris! Look you've spilt the tea all over the table!" _Stupid cat. She's a stupid cat Filch._

_You've already looked in the box today Filch. Once more can't hurt. You told yourself you would only look once a day Filch. I know, I know, I was the one who made the promise, remember? Stupid brain._

_Oh Darlene. _"Your cat can never replace you. Don't look at me like that Mrs Norris, it's the truth and you know it."

**Two hours later…**

_Stupid Draco, with his stupid modeling, and his stupid attractive women. Merlin, oh, that feels good._

**Two hours later…**

_Stupid McGonagall. _"Yes headmistress, I'll make sure of it."_ Stupid spinster._ "Yes, everything will be perfect for the surprise." _For those little brats, why should they get the surprise? Whatever it is. Stupid McGonagall, never trusts me. Who have I got to tell? Aside from Mrs Norris, but she wouldn't tell anyone. She's a bleedin' cat. Now what's Dumbledore's portrait looking at? Why's he smiling at me? Old fruit. Can you hear what I'm thinking? Why are you smiling? Are you telling me you can? Merlin and Mordred, you can! You can! _"Nothing, I'm just looking at Dumbledore's portrait." _He winked! He winked! He did! I saw it! But who would believe you? What do you mean? No one takes you seriously Filch. No one would believe you. It's because you're a squib, in case you've forgot. _"I need to go now professor, a lot of cleaning to do."

_Stupid spinster, don't look at me like I'm crazy. Just because I'm a squib and didn't fight in the war, doesn't mean you have a right to look at me like that. _"Come on Mrs Norris, let's go polish that surprise room."

_Bleedin' students will have it all mucked up one minute after they set foot in here. Stupid Draco will probably turn his pointy nose up at it, with the lifestyle he's use to. Stupid Potter, will probably be a hero, some way or other. Maybe I should put a Bludger in here with them. That would be funny. See how much of a hero Potter really is. What's that Mrs Norris? I could come in and save them? Then I'd be a hero and no one would look down on me again? Now, that is some food for thought. No, Potter would probably save them all before I got the chance. Blasted Potter._

**Two hours later…**

"This time don't spill the tea Mrs Norris."_ Stupid cat._


	4. IV

**A very eventful train ride**

* * *

It has been seven years since Harry Potter first burst onto platform 9 and ¾. In some ways it felt like it was his first year all over again. He felt the excitement fluttering deep within his bowels, as if his insides were squirming to find the new adventures that awaited him. It was the thrill of the unknown.

"Harry," an urgent voice crept into his consciousness.

"What?"

"The train's about to depart," Mrs. Weasley said kindly, too kindly, as if she pitied him. He felt his cheeks flush.

"Oh, thanks."

"It's okay dear."

"Bye Mrs. Weasley."

"See you soon Harry," Mrs. Weasley said giving him a very motherly, very tight and very soft hug. Harry felt himself melding into her; and for a moment all he felt was her love. The train's whistle sounded and Harry hurried onto the train with Ron, Hermione, Ginny, Neville and Luna. They waved goodbye to the tearful Mrs. Weasley until she became a just a miniscule dot on the horizon.

"So," Hermione began, searching for the right words.

"Feels good to be back," Neville said good-naturedly, his round face beaming with happiness.

"Yes it is," Hermione said. "I can't believe I haven't see you and Luna since the picnic. How long has it been?"

"Seven months or five Nargle years," Luna intoned dreamily, not looking up from reading the Quibbler. Harry couldn't help but grin, some things never change.

"So have you all heard about Malfoy?" Ron asked, getting fired up. Then again, some things do.

"Yes, daddy ran an article on it in. Did you all see it?"

"No, I'm sorry I missed it, Luna," Hermione said and Harry could have sworn she looked as though she was making a mental note.

"That's too bad. Daddy put a lot of effort into it."

"What was it about Luna?" Ginny asked kindly.

"It was about how the Slytherins are infiltrating the muggles so that they can steal their magic."

"But Luna," Hermione began cautiously, "muggles don't have magic. That's why they're muggles."

"Of course they do, it's called electrickity," Luna stated matter-of-factly. Hermione sighed and Luna resumed reading the Quibbler.

"Did you hear about the surprise McGonnagal has in store for us?" Harry asked, eager to change the subject.

"Yeah, Gran knows about it, she said she helped to set it up. Won't tell me what it is though. It's pretty annoying, because after what I've been through you'd think she trust…" Neville trailed off as the temperature in the carriage plummeted.

Everyone suddenly became very interested with his or her shoes, every now and then throwing Harry a glance. Harry felt his irritation building. "Look, it's okay to talk about it. We beat Voldemort and lost a lot of people we care about. It's okay to be sad and it's okay to talk about it. Just don't pretend it never happened," he snapped.

Hesitant nods went around the room as Harry glared at them. "So, Luna," Ron began, "how about those nargles." Harry cried out in exasperation and stomped out of the carriage.

Thankfully, he only had to barge through two carriages of gawking first years before he reached the toilets. He pushed open the door and there, with his back Harry, reliving himself, was Draco Malfoy. Harry pondered walking out again but realised he didn't have anywhere to go, so he did the only thing he could do. He walked up to Draco, opened his robes, unzipped his pants and began to tinkle.

Draco just stared blankly ahead, as though he didn't realise someone else had entered the room. Harry's eyes made a quick glance at Draco's member, completely on their own accord and his eyes nearly popped out. A wide smirk spread across Draco's face and turned to face Harry. There were no words to describe the utter horror on his face for a split second. Then, he regained his cool. "I always knew you were a fruit," he smirked and languidly exited the bathroom.

"Fucking Malfoy," Harry muttered angrily.

Harry made his way back to his carriage when he felt poke on his back. He whipped around to see a small blonde girl who was obviously in her first year. Merlin, I wasn't that small when I was in first year, was I? "What?" Harry asked impatiently.

"Sorry, I just wanted to ask are you Harry Potter?" Harry fought hard to keep his irritation in check, after all, he told himself, you want anonymity.

"Yes, I am."

"I was told to give you this," and with that the little blonde girl stamped on his foot and ran away.

"What the?" Harry began not registering what had just happened when he heard Slytherin laughter. "Not everyone wants your autograph pot-head," Pansy taunted.

"And not everyone wants to see your face Pansy," Ginny said from behind Harry.

"Going to let your girlfriend fight your fights Potter?"

"Let's go Harry," Ginny said pulling on Harry's arm, "don't drop to their level." Harry nodded in agreement.

"Fine run away Potter, run back to your mother, oh wait, I forgot she's dead." Harry stopped walking and slowly turned around when Draco walked into the compartment. He looked around the compartment and pointed his wand at Harry.

"Petrificus Totalus," he said, almost lazily and Harry and Ginny fell backwards, stiff as a Hippogriff's hide.

"Well," Draco said, "are you all just going to stand there or is someone going to get a teacher?" He raised his eyebrows at a furious Pansy and she huffed and slinked out of the room.

In what seemed like seconds later, Slughorn's rounded form lumbered into the compartment. "Now what's all this? Who did this?"

"He did, Professor," a first year pointed at Draco accusingly.

"Is this true Mr. Malfoy? Did you do this to Harry?"

"He was going to attack Miss Parkinson, and whilst I'm all for a good duel, I thought it was my duty as Head Boy to uphold school rules."

Professor Slughorn looked at Draco suspiciously. "Very well then, Reverto Totalus," Harry stood up wearily and pulled Ginny up. "Now Harry my boy, why don't you and Miss Weasley head back to your carriage, I'm sure you're sorely missed. As for you Miss Parkinson and Mr. Malfoy, I would like a word with you. Follow me please."

Harry resignedly walked back to his carriage. "What took you guys so long, why are your clothes so rumpled," Ron asked. Then realisation seemed to hit. "Wait, can that, I don't want to know."

Ginny rolled her eyes. "It was Malfoy."

"What'd he do?" Ron asked springing to his feet.

"Oh, sit down Ron, I'll explain," and Ginny explained what had just transpired.

"Malfoy, that prat," Ron said.

"That's very strange though, Malfoy and Pansy going against each other," Hermione said thoughtfully.

"Bad breakup," Luna said, nodding.

"What?" Harry asked.

"It was in Nocturne Alley about six months ago. Draco and Pansy were having a very heated argument. Well at least Pansy was heated, she was yelling all these things at Malfoy. He looked quite bored. Actually, so was I. Then Draco just Disapparated."

"Wait, why were you in Nocturn Alley, Luna?" Hermione asked.

"I was following Draco."

"Why?"

"For daddy's article of course. I'd much rather have been observing the Nargles, but at least I didn't have to follow him for too long."

"How long did you follow him for?" Neville asked.

"About two weeks."

"What did he do?" Ron asked eagerly.

"Not much. He met with a lot of people, took a lot of photos, walked down this platform thing, went to a lot of parties and slept with a lot of girls."

"Don't tell me you watched Luna?" Hermione said astounded.

"No, I was reading the Quibbler."

"Well I guess he's not too upset about his parents going to jail," Harry noted.

"When has Malfoy gotten upset about anything other than his possessions?" Ron asked as the carriage door opened.

"Don't you have anything else to do besides obsess over me, Weasel?" Draco drawled.

"What are you doing here Malfoy?" Ron spat.

"Basking in you loveliness. What the hell do you think I'm doing? Getting back to my carriage," Draco said walking through their carriage.

When he'd left, Luna sighed. "Such a good looking boy, such a bad personality," as the carriage door opened again.

"Out of your league, Loony," Pansy said maliciously as she stalked after Draco.

Ron sighed. "Such a pug of girl, such a pug of a personality," and the carriage burst into peals of laughter.


	5. V

**Filch (2)**

* * *

"Stop yer running!" _Bleedin' students. How am I supposed to survive working here for another bleedin' year? I guess I don't really have a choice do I? Who else'd take a squib like me? _"Youch! What is that?" Bleedin' Fanged Frisbee! "Who did that? Own up to it!" _Don't laugh at me! What have I ever done to any of you? Why pick on me for? Bleedin', no good students, the lot of 'em._

"Alright, very funny, you've had your laugh, now head to the Great Hall." _Before I hang you by your ankles in the dungeons, little monsters. Well if it isn't Draco Malfoy. What, no more cronies? I guess being a star is a lonely business._

"What are you looking at Filch? Shouldn't you be mopping up vomit?"

_Snarky little brat. Thinks he's so good. _"Shouldn't you be gettin' to the Great Hall?"

"Head Boy business."

_What? Head Boy? Why would McGonagall make no good Malfoy Head Boy? Bleedin' looks, it is! Why is it always about looks? Bleedin' Malfoy._ "Well hurry up then!" _Don't you roll your eyes at me. I'll show you one day, I'll show all of you. Come along Mrs. Norris._

"Stop your lolly-gagging and get a move on."_ Bleedin' first years. Don't deserve the surprise, whatever it is. What's that Mrs. Norris? I was supposed to give the surprise room one last shine down before the first batch of students are let in? Oh, thanks for reminding me Mrs. Norris. Bleedin' students, always get me so worked up, can't think straight._

"Hurry up, get to the hall." _Merlin, what an ugly kid. Third floor, turn to the right. Okay, get ready for some shining, stupid room. Malfoy?_ "Malfoy?"_ What's that in his mouth?_ "What's that in his, I mean your, mouth?" _I caught him, I did, oh he'll be in so much trouble, his looks won't save him now. Maybe this year won't be so bad after all._

"Relax Filchy. It's just some muggle magic. Here, sit down, have some."

_Muggle magic?_ "You're pulling my leg, muggles can't do magic."

"Are you calling me a liar?"

_Er…_ "No. I mean yes." _Why's he laughing?_

"I like you Filchy. Come and have some."_ He likes me? A student likes me? Me? Filch? I guess I should have some of his muggle magic. Merlin and Mordred! What is that? Feel so light. Where's the floor? It's gone! Oh, there it is._

"You're all right Filch." _I'm all right? That's funny, I don't feel all right. I feel better than all right. Or is it worse? Who cares._ "Hey Malfoy, can Mrs. Norris have some of that muggle magic?"

"Sorry Filchy, but Mrs. Norris is gone." _What? What does he mean?_

"What do you mean?"

"I killed her Filch."

"What?"

"I killed her."

"Why?"

"Never liked her."

"But she was my cat!"

"I'm just messing with you. She ran outside. Let her go- women, who needs them?"

"Yeah."

"Yeah."

"Yeah."

"Yeah."

_That's so funny. Malfoy is so funny. Look at that hair. So white, so shiny. It's hurting my eyes. Youch._

"Hey Draco, can I call you Draco?"

"No."

"Okay, Malfoy."

"Nah, sure you can Filhy."

"Okay Draco. What was I going to say?" _His hair is so shiny. _"Your hair is so shiny. How do you make it so shiny?"

"Virgin's tears."

"Oh, right." _Maybe I should get some of that, whatever it is._

"Pass the magic here."

"Hey Draco, who's that model you were with?"

"What are you on about Filchy?"

"You know what I'm talking about."

"Actually, I don't."

"The model."

"There are a lot of models."

"The one! The one!"

"Shut up Filchy."

"Okay." _My hands look funny. There so, funny. Merlin, they're huge. I wonder if Draco can see how big they are. Better hide them._

"What are you doing?"

"Nothing."

"Sure, whatever."

"Whatever." _Whatever, whatever, whatever, whatever, whatever. What ever. What. Ever. What? What? Ever? Ever? What. What. What. What. What was I talking about?_ "So Draco, how was your year off?"

"Dazzling."

"Oh."

"You? Not that I give a shit."

"It was, fun." _Cleaning up the crap left over from the war. Bleedin' war. Bleedin' students. _"Pass it here." _That's more like it._

"Fun? Since when was cleaning up this dump fun?"

"It's not a dump."

"Yeah, you're right, a dump is a step up from this place."

"It's not that bad."

"Whatever you say. Anyway better get to the feast, hear the big surprise."

"Yeah, surprise."

"You coming?"

"Yeah, I think so."

"Weirdo."

"I heard that."

"That is the glory of having ears, Filchy. You go first, I need to clean up this place. Don't want other people stealing our magic now, do we?"

_Did he just wink at me? Maybe he has something in his eye. What's he waiting for? Oh, right._ "Of course not Draco."

"Ta ta Filchy, until next time."

"Bye Draco." _Dray Co. Drayyy Co. What a funny name. Now which way was it to the Great Hall? I think it was up, then down, then up, then up, then up. Yeah, that's right. Hey it's my friend Peevsey._

"Hey Peevesy, where's the Great Hall?"

"What's wrong with you Filch-pants?" _What did he just call me? Wait a minute, he's not a friend. He might want to be one of those who want to steal our magic._

"Nothing's wrong. Why would anything be wrong? You can't prove anything!" _Run, Filch, run. What in the name of Merlin are those? Niffler dung pellets?_ "Peeves, just wait 'til the Baron hears about this!"

_A__re those the doors to the hall? Woah, what's everyone looking at? There's Draco. Was that just a smile? It was. I wonder how he got here so fast? Must be the hair._

"Argus? I presume you're running in to tell me that the surprise room is ready and that the first batch of students can make their way in? Well I was just about to announce the surprise so take a seat and you can direct the first lot of students in just a moment."

"Yes Minerva, I mean Professor McGonagall." _Bleedin' McGonagall. Always looking at me like I'm mad. I am mad, mad about her looking at me like I'm mad. I'm sure she wouldn't think you're mad if you stood up and did a dance. Shut up._

"Now as I was saying." _Before I so rudely interrupted you, you old hag._ "The head girl and I have devised a plan so that nothing like the Great War happens again. I'll give the floor to her so that she can explain the ideas behind the plan."

_Oh, Merlin, avada me now. I can't listen to that know-it-all Granger. Knowing her, we'll probably be here all night, and I was hoping to have some tea with Mrs. Norris. Bla, bla, bla, unity, friendship, integration, what's 'diplowmacy' mean? Bleedin' Granger, so high and mighty, does she have to rub in that she knows so many more words than the rest of us?_

"The Solidarity Room will be a neutral space for all of us to get to know each other, without any pressures of house loyalty; a place to bond and perhaps even make friends; and for the more ambitious, a place to make important connections."

_What is she going on about? What Solidarity Room? She doesn't mean… Merlin she does! Some surprise! Little monsters deserve it. For once I'm happy I'm not a student. That's what they get for picking on me! Serves them right!_

"Okay, now the first year to use the Solidarity Room are the seventh years. So seventh years please stand and follow Filch."  _Right, that's me. I'll be leading them to their doom, excellent. That's what I call justice. _"Seventh years, follow me." _I sound like that oaf Hagrid. _"Hurry along you little snots."_ That's better. It's Draco, should I talk to him? Would he want to be seen in public with me? Probably not._

"Merlin Granger, I must hand it to you. Solidarity Room? I can't think of a better way to spend my first night back, except in a bedroom, working on solidarity of course." _That's funny. _

"You're disgusting Malfoy." _Harry I'm-a-hero Potter, no surprise he's a prude._

"No what's disgusting is mud-, sorry, I mean _Granger's_ blantant attempts to score a few extra points for her job applications." _Draco's completely right, as if a talking session will help these people to get along. They're more likely to kill each other, which isn't so bad._

"Malfoy, why don't you grow up? This is about something bigger than job applications and school, this about making sure that what happened last year never happens again." _Shut up Granger._

"How? By sitting around in a circle and talking about our feelings? Merlin, I'd take another war over having to be around you any day." _I feel the same way Draco, Bleedin' Granger's so high and mighty. Oh, we're here._

"Okay we're here. I'll leave you to it."

"Wait, stay Filch. You can draw out the names. Can't he _Granger_?"

"Sure, _Malfoy_. Okay Filch, just draw out two names from this hat and they will be partners for the assignment I spoke about in the Great Hall."_ What's going on? Why are they including me? I don't want to be a part of this._

"Well, what are you waiting for? We haven't got all day." _Bleedin' Pansy, don't even need to form an insult with a name like that. Hey, that was pretty bleedin' clever, need ta remember that one._

"Right Pansy, all those glamour spells need to be performed every night before bed. Better hurry things along Filch, don't want to see Pansy's real face tomorrow." _That showed her. Draco always knows what to say, I wish I could talk like that._

"Okay, so just draw two names Filch. When you have your partner, first copy down the instructions and then just break away to anywhere you like provided it's within the castle to discuss how you're going to complete them. Whenever you're ready Filch."

_Okay here goes nothing. So many, I could pick any of them. I wonder who this is._

"Harry Potter," _what are the chances? Okay, so who is the doomed soul? Wow, that one just flew right into my hand, it must be the right one. It's… Oh no, that's not good._

"Who is it Filch?" _Oh shut up, you stupid mudblood._

"Draco Malfoy."

"What?"

"What? That's not funny."_ I know Draco._

"I'm not joking."

"What the hell are the chances of that?" _Not sure Potter, ask your little mudblood, she knows so much._

"I don't care, I demand a re-draw."

"Malfoy, if I allowed everyone to have a re-draw we'd be here all night. No one is going to be happy about their partners, so just deal with it." _That look is scary, please don't look at me, please don't look at me. Merlin. Sorry Draco, the parchment just came to my hand. It was bewitched!_

"Fine, you take down the instructions, _pot-head_."

"Look _ferret_, take them down yourself."

"I don't think so, _pot-head_."

"What? Did your agent say that you need to save your energy for walking around half-naked?"

"Jealous much, _pot-head_?"

"No."

"Harry, please, just be the better man, just take down the instructions."

"Listen to mu-, Granger, _pot-head_."

_I wonder what pot-head, I mean Potter, wait no-one can hear me, I wonder what pot-head is going to do?_

"Fine. I'll do it." _So that's what 'through gritted teeth' means._

"Quickly, pot-head, it's just a few lines."

"Then why don't you do it?"

"Because remember you're the better man, at least in terms of how pussy-whipped you are."

"Just ignore him Harry. Okay, Filch I think we're ready for another." _Shut up, bleedin' mudblood. I wonder how long it will be before Potter or Draco hurt each other? Pity I can't watch._


End file.
